40k: Midnight Blade.

Chapter 859, page 7.
"I think the best thing in the world is that the people and things that should die die, and the people who should live live, all of them, without exception. What do you think? What do you think?"

The man speaking had a long beard that completely obscured the lower half of his face. He was a man with thick hair and beard, and although his hair was neatly combed and styled, its length was rather exaggerated. Therefore, although he spoke in a loud and emotional voice, and waved his arms enthusiastically and exaggeratedly, his true expression remained a mystery.

He himself was unaware of this, because he was still eagerly awaiting the response from his only audience.

Compared to him, the audience member—the pale man in black clothes and glasses sitting in the dark green armchair opposite him—was much simpler in appearance. At least his hair was short and his beard was clean-shaven, except for the rather large suitcase piled at his feet, which was quite interesting.

Mr. Pale smiled and replied, "I agree, but I'm afraid this will be very difficult."

"That's precisely why it's worth doing!" Mr. Beard exclaimed excitedly. "Otherwise, why would we Krieg people spend money and effort to provide such good treatment for our officials? It's a pity they're only truly dedicated in the first few years; once that's over... humph!"

He snorted coldly, his passion suddenly vanishing, replaced by an overwhelming weariness. He stroked his beard, somewhat comically brought the teacup to his lips, took a small sip, and then let out a long sigh.

The candlelight flickered, and the sigh was all the more pronounced in the No. 1 banquet hall of the large warship 'Arno,' which was equipped with four escort ships.

Mr. Beard put down his teacup in frustration and shook his head.

"In short, as I said, my hometown is beyond saving. Corruption is rampant, officials are sleeping on gold, and even morality has become a despised thing! I have traveled to so many worlds, but in the end, I find that my own home is the place I can least accept."

"The spring before last, I hired a group of detectives to conduct an investigation. The results showed that at least forty percent of our Krieg Nest's annual tax revenue was spent on things that are hard to find. Hard to find, listen to that word, how elegant?"

He repeated the adjective, unable to suppress a cold laugh, his hatred laid bare.

However, for some reason, Mr. Pale did not respond. He simply took off his glasses calmly, made a gesture for him to continue, and leaned forward, waiting attentively.

Mr. Beard seemed to be encouraged by something and soon started speaking again.

“When I was young, my mother wanted me to join the army, but her son was just a good-for-nothing who only thought about pleasure. When he heard the news, he panicked and took a large sum of money and fled to some garden world. I enjoyed myself there for two years. When I came back, my mother was seriously ill. Her political rivals had poisoned her. We have solid evidence that could put that bastard and his whole family in death row, but the Ministry of Justice doesn’t want to do that.”

"They know, or rather everyone knows, that Alric, the youngest son of the von Hemlock family, is the last heir, but also a useless and incompetent good-for-nothing. With his mother dead, the family will fall apart. Under such circumstances, why bother offending others?"

"As for the outcome, you can probably guess. My mother died slowly and painfully, and the Ministry of Justice just went through the motions, never even truly interrogating the suspect once. This incident spurred me on; I wanted revenge, but even the killers and assassins wouldn't accept my gold."

“One of them even told me that I should take the money and leave quickly, otherwise he might shoot me the next time I saw him.”

Mr. Beard picked up his teacup again, stroked his beard, and took a small sip.

"And then?" Mr. Pale asked.

“I’ve decided to change careers,” Mr. Beard replied with a smile. “My family used to be in the mining business, and later we got involved in the processing industry. In short, I sold everything I could, and then on the day my mother was buried, I went to the dock, found a captain, and bought a boat.”

He pointed to the ground, his eyes crinkling with laughter.

"As you can see, this is the ship, the Arno 1. It's a converted ship that I don't know how it was legally made. Apart from being slow, it has almost no flaws and can carry a variety of businesses, from travel to commercial activities. It's not cheap, but I don't care. To me, it's worth my entire fortune."

"You've become a wandering merchant?" Mr. Pale asked.

"Hey, don't talk nonsense." Mr. Beard's voice suddenly softened. "What license do I have? That captain did. He and I were partners for twenty years, and he was kind enough to find a legal loophole for me when he was about to retire. Otherwise, I probably would have had to change careers again."

He raised his right hand, showing off the wedding ring on his ring finger, his eyes narrowing into slits again.

“This is my story, sir journalist—” Alrik von Hemlock looked at him expectantly. “—What do you think? Is there any possibility of publication?”

Mr. Pale pondered for a moment before giving his answer.

“I know what you want to do with my pen, but, if I may be frank, the publishing industry isn’t very interested in these kinds of biographical stories right now.”

"Is the publishing industry like this in every world?" Alric asked, somewhat disappointed but still unwilling to give up.

"More or less," Mr. Pale shook his head. "I've also traveled to many places, and from my observation, customers who buy books generally prefer travelogues with fantasy and romance elements, as well as those that showcase the customs and cultures of different worlds. Therefore, publishers now also prefer this type of book."

Alric frowned, then nodded. "Yes, yes, you're right. We've taken on quite a lot of travel business in the past few years. Ah, the world changes so fast. People seem to have developed a love for traveling. It's really amazing."

Mr. Pale smiled but said nothing.

Alric pondered for a moment, then picked up his teacup, plunged it into his beard as if stabbing himself with a knife, and drank it all in one gulp.

He stood up briskly, gave Mr. Pale a slight bow, and politely said goodbye. And so, he was left alone in Banquet Hall Number One.

The tables and chairs were comfortable, the floor tiles were quiet, and the only sound was the soft scratching of pens on paper. It wasn't until about ten minutes later that a sound broke the peaceful silence.

“That man wasn’t telling the truth,” Skladrek said.

He stood behind Khalil, arms crossed, his long, gray hair cascading casually over his shoulders, looking extremely disheveled. His clothes were the same style, full of wrinkles, and although clean, they always gave the impression that he didn't want to wear them.
And that was indeed the case; the Crimson Lord missed his power armor terribly, but Khalil insisted that he wear his normal clothes when 'not on a mission'.

This was something Skladrek found very difficult to accept. Since becoming a Crimson Claw, he had never taken off his power armor except when entering the infirmary.

In his words, wearing a comfortable silk shirt and trousers felt like having your skin peeled off and then being covered with mud.

“Oh, how so?” Khalil asked without looking up.

“I can smell what he’s hiding,” Skalardrick said, his upper lip twitching nervously, his nostrils flaring as if he were a beast searching for the scent of its prey.

“He did hide something, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t telling the truth—truths that are partially concealed are still truths, it’s just nine parts truth and one part falsehood.”

Khalil smiled and stopped writing, stuffing the small notebook, along with the pen—a gesture perfectly befitting a journalist—back into his coat pocket. He then put his glasses back on, adjusting their angle as he did so. He was now quite adept at this action, and it didn't feel out of place at all.

Skaldrick looked down at him, slowly lowering his arms, but his tone still sounded dangerous.

"He's trying to deceive you to achieve his own goals. His mother was murdered, and he hasn't been able to avenge her all these years. In the end, he's even thinking of relying on a reporter to expose the truth of what happened back then? If you really are just a reporter, you'll probably run into trouble soon after this book is published. Hasn't he considered that?" Khalil raised an eyebrow, looking at him with some surprise, and then nodded approvingly, leaving the Grand Prince somewhat bewildered and taken aback.

“You’ve finally improved,” the instructor from the Eighth Legion said happily. “It turns out, Skaldrick, that you are indeed capable of understanding what people are thinking.”

"Sir, is this related to what I'm talking about?"

"Of course! You never used to analyze things this much; you would just say things like—"

Khalil cleared his throat and suddenly made his voice extremely somber and hoarse, like a blade rubbing against a stone.

"—He's lying. Shall I interrogate him, instructor?"

Skladrek let out a very faint sigh, then turned his face away and disappeared into the darkness.

Khalil stood up with a smile, picked up the excessively large suitcase, and headed towards the exit of the banquet hall.

However, just as he reached the exit, he suddenly stopped. The reason was simple: the hour, second, and minute hands on the wall clock in the corridor all pointed to six.

The journalistic expression vanished in the blink of an eye. Skladrick noticed it, but he couldn't react. Time stretched out, and the temperature plummeted to a point that could defy the laws of physics, yet everything around him remained unscathed, no matter how fragile they were compared to the force that caused it.
Khalil released his grip, letting the suitcase fall to the ground. He calmly walked to the right-hand corridor, then reached out and grabbed the slender, thin neck of some creature.

Time returned to normal, and the chill vanished as if it had never existed.

Skaldrick let out a low growl.

His hair and beard danced wildly, and the Great Khan's bloodshot black eyes were sliced ​​into several unequal rhombuses within his gray-white hair, each fragment containing a chillingly violent killing intent. He lunged towards Khalil's side, his hands outstretched, intending to break his spine, but stopped abruptly at a perfectly timed glance from someone.
“Kill them later,” Khalil said.

He looked down at the Spirit Race member who was kneeling obediently on the ground.

"Did the master of Comoros send you to find me?"

"Yes, yes."

The young Elven race member, whose hands were not stained with human blood, cowered and answered.

Like its four companions, it was specially chosen. They were born from wombs, and by the Elven race's standards, they were probably still infants, but they had only undergone the crucial process of soul absorption a dozen times, and were already extremely weak.

This is interesting, just as interesting as how they arrived on the ship instantly without warning through the power of the Slaanesh.

Khalil couldn't help but smile and shake his head.

"Indeed, if you live long enough, you'll see everything," he said with a sigh. "This matter could already be included in the list of Imperial Wonders, along with those orcs who wanted to join the auxiliary army."

He was clearly speaking, yet his voice did not resonate in the material world; instead, it penetrated deep into the subspace, reaching the very depths of the endless, chaotic tides.
In the central location of Slaanesh's sixth ring, the Prince of Pleasure responded with a light laugh.

“Yes,” He said. “Who would have thought that a group of Comorians would willingly offer themselves as sacrifices to me?”

Kalil glanced at Him, then looked away and returned to the material world.

The deliberately chosen lambs waited in fear; except for the one in his hand, all the others knelt on the ground, their backs bowed. Their souls were all marked with the mark of Slaanesh, but other than that, they were without sin—a miracle beyond description for the dark Eldar.

It is no exaggeration to say that the ruler of Comoros and the leader of the ruthless conspiracy group have probably gone to great lengths.

The logic behind this is easy to understand: they saw that the Eldar were being protected, so they could no longer sit still.

In the past, they all lived in a fiery pit. But one day, their kin, who had suffered and fallen together, were dragged out, making the pain and torment they had grown accustomed to unbearable. This is often the case with intelligent beings.

His intentions are commendable, Khalil thought. It's just a pity.
"The Lord of Comoros summoned you here to propose a deal, is that right?" he asked again. "He has probably trained you day and night for this, putting in a great deal of effort?"

The Comorian he was holding wanted to answer, but Khalil didn't allow it. Staring into its eyes, he gently shook his head.

"No matter what conditions he proposes, humanity will not accept them; some debts must be repaid with blood."

As he finished speaking, a sudden burst of blue light engulfed them all. In the slowly fading psionic light, he turned and walked back, picking up the briefcase again, while Skalardrick, following closely behind him, let out a grumble.

"What's wrong?" Khalil asked without turning his head.

The king did not speak, but simply snapped his fingers.

The instructor from the Eighth Legion sighed and said helplessly, "Alright, alright, I'll give you a new mission that will allow you to temporarily unleash your true nature, how about it?"

"What mission?" Skladrek asked rapidly.

Khalil turned his head with a half-smile.

"Didn't that Mr. Alric say that corruption is rampant in his hometown? Why don't you go there? Of course, I understand that this isn't Crimson Claw's forte, and it's fine if you refuse. Everyone has their own expertise. I'll contact Keul."

"I accept!"

"Really? You need to think this through. Anti-corruption isn't about stopping violence with violence; it needs you—"

"I accept, instructor!"

“Okay.” Khalil shrugged. “Good luck.”

He smiled silently, turned his face away, and continued walking.

(End of this chapter)